


The ACE Factors

by ceterisparibus



Series: The Psychology of Matt Murdock [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Gen, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Psychology, the Adverse Childhood Experience factors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25612165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: Matt's therapist walks him through the Adverse Childhood Experience factors.(This is a remix, if you will, of a scene from my Ella series, where Matt is *spoiler alert* in therapy in the middle of prepping for trial after he and Foggy took Dex's case. They're hoping they can mount a "mental disease or defect" defense for Dex, and Matt is, true to form, more interested in using his own therapy to help Dex instead of helping himself. His therapist, however, is two steps ahead of him. Oh, also, in the original fic, Matt's identity as Daredevil is common knowledge. So, there's that. Anyway, the original scene was from the therapist's POV, and Eledhwen was curious about Matt's internal perspective.)
Series: The Psychology of Matt Murdock [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856794
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	The ACE Factors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eledhwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eledhwen/gifts).



> Warning for discussion of possible childhood traumas. (For example, one question asks about sexual abuse; Matt says no and they move on, but it's there.)

He was running late. Not abnormal; Dr. Richland was definitely used to it by now. Maybe even resigned to it. He’d stopped trying to avoid her comments about his lateness, always probing for more information than what he knew how to give her; now he just apologized, and that was that. Besides, late was better than skipping sessions entirely, as he used to do, so that was…an improvement.

Still. He felt a stab of guilt each time he ran his fingers over his watch and realized he’d missed another minute of their session.

He finally ducked into the office lobby. Stale carpet smelling of dirt and shoes and Cheetos some kid had spilled. Old magazines and books meant to occupy people while they waited. A children’s play area in the corner, no doubt riddled with germs. Matt nodded to the receptionist, who waved him down the hall to Dr. Richland’s door.

“I’m sorry,” he began as soon as he stepped across the threshold.

Her office was smaller, with thick walls that insulated the noise, but it smelled like too many people and too much room spray. And there was a fish tank in the corner, which was weird from a sensory perspective. But the couch, made up of the softest material he’d ever found in a public place, made up for it.

Dr. Richland set aside the paperwork she’d been working on while she waited for him, tucking her hair (thick and cut short) behind her ears. “No need to apologize. I’m just glad you’re here.”

Shrugging off his jacket, he sat gingerly on the couch opposite her. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be there; it wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, finally, after all this time. It was simply that these sessions always felt like stepping into the boxing ring—when he knew he was outmatched. Her questions and comments and his own realizations never failed to cut deep, to get in some surprise hits. It was good, he knew it was good, but…it wasn’t exactly comfortable.

“What’s on the agenda today?” he asked, keeping his voice level, head tilted towards her.

“Two things,” she answered promptly, “unless you’d like to add something. I know you’ve been wanting to get advice to help your client, and I have an idea of something that might give you more insight into him. But first, I want to focus on you.”

That wasn’t quite accurate; since he knew she’d rather focus on Matt the entire time. Whereas Matt would rather use this time to make the most of her expertise to serve the case. She wasn’t a forensic psychologist and she’d never personally met Dex, but Matt knew she still had valuable insights.

He knew better than to fight her on this, though. He’d have to put up with talking about himself first before she agreed to talk about Dex.

She apparently took his silence as acquiescence. “How would you say that this week has been going for you so far?”

He couldn’t quite stifle a sigh, but he dutifully answered the question. “Good. But…stressful, sometimes. The case is stressful. There’s something we’re missing with Dex, we just don’t know what.”

“Missing?” She tilted her head. “What do you mean, missing?”

“I mean…” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I can’t read him. I can’t figure out what his goals are, I can’t figure out how genuine he’s being…and I don’t know why.”

“You’re not a mind-reader, Matt,” she reminded him gently. “You’re not even a psychologist.”

“But what’s the point of my abilities and my training if I can’t—” He broke off, mouth twisting as he caught himself. “I’m doing the all-or-nothing thinking again, aren’t I.” She’d started walking him through various cognitive distortions when they first started meeting, identifying the ones he struggled with the most. All-or-nothing thinking was common. As was catastrophizing.

(In his defense, it wasn’t like he never faced real crises. And his enemies certainly like to take an all-or-nothing approach. But Dr. Richland had pointed out, gently, that although the way his brain geared up for a fight against enemies like Fisk or the Hand was helpful in that context, it could turn counterproductive in other areas of his life.)

His reward for catching the slip was a tiny smile in her voice when she responded. “Sounds like it. There’s a whole lot of point short of you being able to immediately profile a man who got through military and FBI background checks and psych evals despite the fact that he clearly has some very serious issues.”

He tapped an agitated finger against the couch cushion. They’d gone over and over the fact that he didn’t have to be perfect, enough that he finally understood it intellectually. Really _accepting_ that fact, however, was another matter entirely.

But she was patient with him. More patient with him than he ever was with himself.

“You know,” she said suddenly, “I’ve been thinking about other therapy options.”

“For Dex?” he asked hopefully.

“For you, we’re still talking about you,” she reminded him.

“Oh.” Figured.

“Do you know what dialectical behavior therapy is?”

Something to do with dialogue? He shook his head.

Her heartrate sped up and she leaned forward in her seat, a slight movement that was probably unconscious; she did it whenever she was excited about explaining a new idea. “It was designed to treat borderline personality disorder, but it’s useful for anyone who struggles to regulate their emotional responses to things. “t’s cognitive-based, so it’s about scrutinizing your thoughts rather than living inside your thoughts, which you’re already used to. But it’s also collaborative.”

“Collaborative,” Matt echoed uncertainly.

She nodded, hair brushing the sides of her face. “Ideally, it’s worked out in group therapy sessions, so people can—”

Groups? “No,” he interrupted. “No, I can’t do that. Sorry.”

Her heartbeat slowed. Disappointment. Not that she gave anything away in her voice or body language. “All right,” she said calmly. “You don’t have to. But can you tell me why you don’t want to?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Doctor, I’m Daredevil.”

“I know,” she said, still calm, and refusing to admit the obvious. Making him spell it out instead.

“I can’t just…” He gestured vaguely. “I can’t just go to group therapy.”

“Like I said, you don’t have to. But you haven’t really explained why you don’t want to…”

Her gaze was heavy on him. He tugged on the collar of his shirt, imagining countless other pairs of eyes from nameless faces, all pinning him with the weight of their stares. Expecting to hear his secrets, his fears. Would they be disappointed in the man they called a hero? Would they forgive him for being so weak? Would the things he shared be used against him?

Dr. Richland was still watching him. Matt resisted the temptation to fidget and forced himself to come up with an answer. “It’s just…it wouldn’t feel right.”

It was truthful. It was also vague. He tensed, expecting her to call him on it.

Instead, she simply hummed skeptically, which was worse. It meant she thought she knew exactly what he hadn’t wanted to say.

“Can we talk about Dex now?” he asked, a tiny bit desperately.

“Of course,” she said quickly, like she could see that she’d pushed him too far (and if his weakness was so transparent _here_ , it just reinforced the fact that he could never— _should_ never—be honest in a group of strangers). “Like I said, I had an idea of something that could you understand him. Do you know what ACE factors are?”

He shook his head again, raising his eyebrows.

Her breathing hitched slightly like she needed to brace herself; whatever she wanted to bring up must be…sensitive. “ACE stands for Adverse Childhood Experiences. They’re a certain set of things that are especially disruptive if you go through them as a child. About two-thirds of adults in America have at least one. Also, because ACEs tend to come together, over eighty percent of adults who have one also have more. Having enough of them can have some pretty significant effects even on adult life.”

Ah. “You think Dex has a lot of them? You think that explains why he is…the way he is?”

“Partially,” she equivocated (and Matt stifled a smirk; therapists were almost as good as lawyers at refusing to be locked into anything decisive). “They’re a starting point, at least. And you don’t need a degree in psychology to talk to him about these, if you want to see if he has any.”

Matt frowned, considering the implications. Anything that helped explain Dex’s behavior was good; anything tied to a traumatic childhood was better. Tragic backstories, as Foggy liked to call them, played well with juries. Still, it wouldn’t be easy to dig any of that out of Dex. “Somehow I’m not convinced that he’d take it well if I started interrogating him about…childhood trauma.”

She nodded, just a bit too eagerly. “Good point. If you want, I could ask you the questions, and that way you can mirror my posture, my pacing, my tone of voice? Get a feel for them and for how to ask them gently?”

Matt was suspicious. She was always cautious when it came to discussing Dex; she had to have some ulterior motive here. But he reminded himself that he’d decided to trust her. Besides, this would help the case. He cleared his throat. “No, yeah, good idea. So, you just…?”

“I’d explain what they are,” she began, “like I just did with you. And then I’d explain scoring. There are ten recognized ACE factors—five having to do with personal trauma, and five having to do with trauma around a child, like in their family.” She pulled out a sheet of paper. “So what happens is, I go through the list and you tell me which factors you’ve experienced. They’re not weighted—they’re all one point. Do you want to try?”

His stomach tensed in anticipation, but he kept his face impassive. “Sure,” he said steadily.

“Okay.” Her voice was deceptively casual, belied by her heartbeat. She knew this was going to be difficult, but she wouldn’t admit it unless Matt admitted it first. “I’m gonna ask you just a couple of questions, and I want you to tell me if the circumstance described was true for you as a child. As in, when you were under eighteen. Ready?”

“Ready,” he lied.

She still took a moment, not lowering her head to the paper—she was studying him. He felt a flash of panic that maybe he wasn’t hiding his unease as well as he hoped.

But then she began, voice completely neutral. “All right, here’s the first question. Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often swear at you, insult you, put you down, or humiliate you? Or act in a way that made you afraid that you might be physically hurt?”

“No,” Matt said immediately. Then he felt a phantom ache deep in his right shoulder, felt phantom fingers gripping his wrists, and slowly tilted his head. “Unless, uh…does the year with Stick count?”

“How old were you?” she asked softly.

He was pretty sure he’d told her, and it wasn’t like her to forget. Oh…oh. She wanted him to think about the significance, then. He pressed his lips together. “Ten. So, uh…I’m guessing yes, then.” He had to bite back the instinctual protest: _It was training_. He knew by now that the fact that Stick had helped him could coexist with the fact that Stick had…hurt him.

“Yes,” she agreed simply. “That’s one point for your score.”

He frowned. “Right,” he said, but he was more focused on the conscious effort it took to keep his hands from clenching at the thought of what other questions were waiting for him on the list, what things would be drug out into the light only to stamp him with a score that marked him as, what, _traumatized?_ The word sat on the back of his tongue like a bad taste in his mouth, and he had to wait until he was absolutely sure that it wouldn’t be evident in his voice before asking, “What’s the next one?”

Dr. Richland glanced down at the list. “Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often push, grab, slap, or throw something at you? Or ever hit you so hard that you had marks or were injured?”

He let out a small laugh. “Stick, yeah. All the time.”

“What about anyone besides Stick?”

He shook his head vehemently. “Just Stick. My dad would never—my dad was great with me.”

Dr. Richland’s pause was suspicious. Maybe not of Jack, but of others. And, all right, the nuns hadn’t exactly been averse to physical punishment, but he knew he hadn’t been easy to deal with as a kid. Which Dr. Richland probably guessed.

Matt was relieved when she didn’t press the issue, instead making a note on her paper (another point for his score of trauma) and moving on. “Did an adult or a person at least five years older than you ever touch, fondle, or have you touch their body in a sexual way? Or—”

“No,” he said quickly. “No.”

There was no suspicious pause there, to his relief. “Did you often or very often feel that no one in your family loved you or thought you were special? Or your family didn’t look out for each other, feel close to each other, or support each other?”

The fingers of his right hand rubbed against the couch’s soft material. It was grounding against the memories. “Not, um…not before St. Agnes.”

“But after?”

“Well, yeah. Obviously.”

She wrote it down.

“Wait, that’s another point?” he interrupted incredulous. “Not feeling special?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, giving nothing away.

But not feeling special was nothing like getting hurt by trusted adults. Not feeling special was just part of life for some people. Then again…he frowned, remembering Ella’s certainty, when he’d first met her, that she deserved all the abuse her father gave her, that she wasn’t worth attention or protection. “I guess, that makes sense for someone like Ella.”

“And Ella is the only child in the world who needs to feel loved and special,” Dr. Richland remarked.

Matt stifled a grimace at her logic, wanting to point out that he and Ella had been nothing alike as kids. Except…that didn’t matter, did it? Kids were kids, the fact that he’d once been one notwithstanding. Matt rearranged his face into a sheepish half-grin. “Okay, I get the point. I’ll just pretend high scores are good.”

Dr. Richland exhaled softly through her nose, a sound that was simultaneously gentle and amused. “Did you often or very often feel that you didn’t have enough to eat, had to wear dirty clothes, and had no one to protect you? Or that your parents were too drunk or high to take care of you or take you to the doctor if you needed it?”

“Not the last one,” he said.

“But the first one?”

He couldn’t hold back the grimace this time, skin prickling with shame. “I guess so.”

“After going to St. Agnes?” she queried. “Or…?”

Matt stiffened at her probing, at the implications. “It wasn’t my dad’s fault,” he snapped, “and I don’t blame him. And I knew he’d protect me. It was just, you know…money was tight.”

“I understand.” She made another note, her pen scratching over paper.

“That’s a point?” he burst out. “That’s not fair! It wasn’t his fault!”

She lowered her pen. “Matt, this exercise is to help you understand the impact of some of your experiences. How your reality affected you. Your dad’s intentions or desires for you aren’t what this question’s going for.”

That wasn’t _fair_. His dad poured out his blood and sweat to keep the lights on and put food on the table. It was despicable to judge him for…for not doing as much as some other parents were able to do, parents in better circumstances. Matt’s stomach shriveled with guilt—at revealing to Dr. Richland where his dad had fallen short, at feeling forced into ungratefulness. He _wasn’t_ ungrateful, he _wasn’t_ , he just…couldn’t deny the facts.

“Let’s move on,” Dr. Richland said decisively—an announcement, not a suggestion, and Matt forced his jaw to unclench. “Was a biological parent ever lost to you through divorce, abandonment, or other reason?”

“Let me guess,” he said sardonically, “it’s two points if I lost them both?”

Dr. Richland’s slow breath was unmistakable. She was pitying him. “Just one point,” she said quietly.

Matt wanted to say something sarcastic, but he was well aware that she’d see it for the defense mechanism it was. With nothing else to use as a shield, he was left to nod tightly and hope she’d move on before his composure cracked.

She obliged, reading him as effortlessly as ever. “Was your mother or stepmother often pushed grabbed, slapped, or—”

“Since she wasn’t there,” he said, voice mocking even to his own ears, “I’d say no.”

“Did you live with anyone who was a problem drinker or alcoholic, or who used street drugs?”

Finally, a painless question. “No.”

“Was a household member depressed or mentally ill, or did a household member attempt suicide?”

Maggie’s scent curled through his mind. “Not that last one. I don’t know about the others.” He fidgeted, rubbing awkwardly at a spot behind his ear. “I mean, my mom was depressed, but she left, so…” He trailed off. He didn’t feel quite as guilty for bringing Maggie into this as he had for admitting that his dad sometimes couldn’t provide enough, but he knew this conversation would haunt him the next time he talked to her.

Dr. Richland only waited a few seconds longer before realizing he didn’t plan on finishing his thought. “Did a household member go to prison?”

“No.”

“All right.” She made a final note. “And…that’s it, you’ve got your score.”

He tensed despite his best efforts, letting a mask slide over his face. Not the Devil’s mask, but the one he used in court when he didn’t want the jury to know that he was worried about an outcome. “What is it?”

Dr. Richland answered readily, like ripping out stitches. “Five out of ten.”

Except that her heartrate skipped ever so slightly. She wouldn’t lie to him by overestimating his score, which meant she must think he’d earned a six instead of a five. Matt let out a slow breath, deciding on the spot not to push her on it. “That’s not bad, right?”

“Well,” she said carefully, so carefully that the tension knotted itself deeper in his stomach, “a score of four or more is consistently linked with some pretty serious repercussions.”

His fidgeting hand curled into a tight fist, blunt nails digging into his palm. “Oh,” he managed.

“People with higher scores are more likely to be violent, struggle in marriage, have broken bones—”

“It affects bones?” he blurted out, because that was easier to think about than…than violence, or a failing marriage. The devil in him, wreaking destruction on those he hated as well as those he loved.

She nodded. “You should be aware that thirty percent of men with a score of four or more experience chronic depression. An adult with a score of four or more is also seven times more likely to be alcoholic—”

“Are you sure that’s not just the lawyers?” he interrupted with forced humor, flashing a cheap smile. He couldn’t maintain it for more than two seconds.

“Being a lawyer is hard enough, I bet,” she said lightly. “A score of four or more also increases an adult’s likelihood to attempt suicide by twelve hundred percent.”

That hit him like a crowbar to the chest and the worst part was, he didn’t even know how he felt about it. Ashamed for letting his history build this weakness in him? Or relieved, like he had some kind of…excuse? “Oh,” he said instead, barely managing to force the word past his lips.

He shoved all that aside, forcing himself to sit up straighter. “But it wasn’t like that,” he insisted. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“What wasn’t?” she asked, the gentleness in her voice failing to soften the piercing nature of her questioning.

“I just mean…” He paused, trying to get his thoughts in order. “I had my dad.”

Until he didn’t.

But Dr. Richland didn’t dispute the claim; she nodded encouragingly.

Bolstered slightly, Matt went on. “And…and I had the priests and the nuns, at St. Agnes.”

Dr. Richland hesitated, and Matt thought for a second that she _would_ dispute this claim. But she didn’t. “There are other parts of your history worth considering,” she offered instead. “They’re called resilience factors.”

He felt cautiously hopeful. “What’re they?”

“Well, they can lessen the negative impact of the ACE factors. There are fourteen of them. Do you want to go through them?”

He was nodding before she’d finished the question. He stopped a second later, not wanting to look too eager. Too desperate.

She pretended not to notice, instead launching right into the first question: “Did you believe that your father loved you when you were little?”

He felt the ghost of his dad’s hands ruffling his hair. Laughter. Rough forehead kisses. Well-worn reminders to finish his homework before bed. Matt smiled. “Definitely.”

“What about your mother?”

His smile faded before he could catch it, and now it would look too obvious to pin it back in place. Matt started picking at the fabric of the couch before he could stop himself. “Ah…not so much. I mean, I do now, but…”

“It’s all right,” Dr. Richland said softly, and steered the conversation on. “When you were little, did other people help your mother and father take care of you, and did they seem to love you?”

Matt paused. “My…my grandmother tried to love me.” It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t love anyone with the devil inside. She was too holy for that.

(Well, that wasn’t quite right. God was holy, and yet God loved sinners. But that holiness to the exclusion of compassion the image his grandmother had projected.)

Dr. Richland tilted her head. “Is that what you thought when you were a kid, or is that what you think now?”

“…Now,” he said reluctantly. “Back then, I thought she hated me.”

Dr. Richland hummed noncommittally, moving on again without further comment. “Have you heard that, when you were an infant, someone in your family enjoyed playing with you, and you enjoyed it too?”

Matt blinked. “Does that matter, if I was a baby?”

“It matters,” she said simply.

He wasn’t sure how, although he wasn’t about to debate her on…infant psychology. “Okay, well…yeah, my dad. And I know now that my mom did too, so…or does that not count, if I learned that as an adult?”

“It counts. It means that you as a baby were able to feel your mother’s love.”

Wait, really? He hadn’t…he hadn’t thought about that, before. That Maggie’s love, limited though it was by her depression, would’ve somehow seeped into him regardless. Would’ve lingered in him, reinforcing him against the…the hurts that were to come. A lump tried to rise in his throat; he swallowed it quickly down. This wasn’t the time to focus on that.

But maybe his next conversation with Maggie wouldn’t be so haunted after all.

“When you were a child,” Dr. Richland continued, “were there relatives in your family who made you feel better if you were sad or worried?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, pleased that the answer was so simple. “My dad.”

“When you were a child, did your neighbors or your friends’ parents seemed to like you?”

He thought about it. “Maybe? My dad didn’t have many friends. He took me to church, though, and Father Lantom liked me.” Did the priest count?

He must, because the next question was: “When you were a child, were teachers, coaches, youth leaders, or ministers there to help you?”

“Yeah,” he said definitively. Even before he’d been old enough for lattes, Father Lantom had taken the time to talk to him one-on-one. He’d seen into Matt’s soul despite Matt’s best efforts, and he hadn’t flinched away.

(If not for Father Lantom, Matt didn’t think he _would_ believe that a holy God could love sinners.)

“And did anyone in your family care about how you were doing in school?”

Matt grinned. “My dad wouldn’t let me go to bed if my homework wasn’t done, and he’d try to check it even when it was on braille.”

“I’m glad,” Dr. Richland said quietly. “Did you have family, neighbors, and friends who talked about making your lives better?”

Did the other boxers count? They’d cared about the Murdock family, Matt supposed, but only from a distance, and Matt and Jack hadn’t had the time or, frankly, the interest in getting to know their neighbors. “…Maybe? I don’t know, there weren’t that many.”

“Did you have rules in your house, and were you expected to keep them?”

Matt was taken aback. “What, rules are a resilience factor?”

“As long as they weren’t unreasonable or enforced cruelly.”

“Huh.” His dad’s voice echoed in his ears, talking about duty and respect and the importance of obeying. And he’d never been unreasonable or cruel about it. Matt smiled softly. “My dad was always going on about rules being important, but he never could explain why. Not in a way that satisfied me, anyway. But I guess he was right.”

“He was,” Dr. Richland assured him. “When you felt really bad, could you almost always find someone you trusted to talk to?”

“Uh.” Matt chewed on the inside of his cheek. After he’d lost his dad…. “Not…not later. I mean, I know now that I could’ve talked to Father Lantom, but Stick said he wouldn’t understand, so…”

Dr. Richland stiffened so marginally that Matt was sure no one else would notice her anger, which she set aside with impressive speed. (Matt was relieved; she and Matt had gone around and around about Stick enough times and Matt didn’t need to hear another lecture about how Stick had twisted him. Not today.) “When you were young, did people notice that you were capable and could get things done?”

“My dad, yeah. Everyone else, though…” He gestured at his glasses. “They made assumptions.” Assumptions which still stung.

 _I actually felt sorry for you,_ Foggy had said.

Matt hadn’t brought that up in session yet, even though he’d told Dr. Richland about most of the other parts of their fight the night that Foggy discovered the truth about Matt.

She wrote something down. “Were you independent and a go-getter?” She sounded like she already knew the answer.

Matt ducked his head, searching for a way to answer honestly without sounding arrogant. He settled on, “You could say that.”

“Last question: did you believe that life could be whatever you made it?”

He lifted his chin, relieved that the last question was one he could answer with utter confidence. “Yeah. I did.” He still did. He always would. He tilted his head, nervous despite himself. “So…how’d I do?”

“Ten out of fourteen!” Her smile was clear in her voice. “That’s really good, Matt.”

“Is it?”

“It really is.” She leaned closer towards him. “You went through a lot as a kid, a lot you should never have gone through. But it sounds like you had some good people in your life. Not a lot, but some. Enough. And now…”

He took a deep breath. “Now I have even more. That’s what you’re saying, right?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Dex, though…I don’t know what he went through as a kid, and I don’t know what was there to help him through it. You’re there for him now, which could make a difference. But remember…” She pressed her lips together for a moment. “You’re just one person. You can’t save him. Which means that helping him is going to be hard.”

Why did people keep feeling the need to tell him this? Matt shook his head. “I have to try.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t try. I’m just saying…hold onto the good people in your life. Lean on them. Promise me, Matt.”

He did his best to meet her gaze. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> So! The ACE factors (and resilience factors) are, I think, incredibly important to be aware of for...literally so many reasons. For me, personally, I work with juvenile survivors of trauma, and although I don't want to let their ACE factors define them, I do find that being conscious of their high ACE scores helps me react better when they lash out, or push me away, or run away. And learning about their resilience factors helps me know how to guide them towards things in their life that are healthy.
> 
> Anyway, that work is why I originally researched the ACE factors, and of course once I discovered them, I couldn't help thinking about how Matt would fare.


End file.
